Suckers and Lollipops
by Middendorffi
Summary: Harley loves The Joker, always has, always will. And the Joker loves...having her around. But sometimes things happen, and when you have to rely on outside sources, that's where it gets...messy. WARNING: Kinky/lemons/abuse/twisted/HarleyxJokerxScarecrow


**I. A Mistake**

"Mistah J, please, I didn't mean it!" I beg. _He won't hurt me, not again…Right?_ He stalks up to me slowly, building tension on purpose, I'm sure—he's such an artist. He's smiling, but I haven't been able to tell the good smiles from the killing ones for a long while now. I think they musta' blurred together or somethin'.

He stops as the back of my legs hits the metal frame of the bed, and licks his lips. Even in my terrified state, the action brings a shiver up my body and to the base of my neck. "Of course not," he purrs, reaching out to trail a single, rough-padded finger down my cheek. I flinch automatically at first, and then lean into his uncharacteristically gentle touch. "I know _my_ Harls wouldn't _dream_ of undermining Daddy's abilities." I find myself nodding sleepily, soothed by his words, his lovely, rattling voice. It doesn't register that his hand has been trailing down my cheek to my neck until his fingers tighten suddenly, cutting off my air. I gasp and sputter, digging my nails into his hand.

"Wha-**t** was it you said?" He growls. "That I should phone _Crane_ for help?" Mistah J's hand squeezes with emphasis and pretty stars fly into my vision. I know that talking will only make it worse, and I don't have the breath left to be wasting anyway, but I can't help but _try_. I've hurt my poor Puddin's feelings, so, of _course_ he's angry with me. It didn't help that Johnny and I had history together. While we were both Docs at the Arkham loony bin, I'd kinda had a thing for him, and he an even _bigger_ one for me. We fooled around a bit back then, and I made the mistake of tellin' Puddin when he was in one of his moods. It ended up much like this, and now ol' Crane was a _sens_-it-ive topic. Mistah J still sent some of our injured men to him, _if_ they were useful enough to bother saving.

But all that silliness with the man called Scarecrow was before _him_, it might as well never even happened. To me, anyway.

"Come on, P-Puddin, I was only j-jokin!" I choke out. My vision was starting to blacken at the edges. "Y-You know how much I—" I'm cut off as Mistah J suddenly shoves me by my neck to the floor. My head thunks against the cold cement floor, and I try my best not to start cryin. _J likes me strong_, I reassure myself.

I just have to let him punish me, so that he can feel better, so that he knows how much he means to me.

He's muttering, almost snarling to himself, and it catches me by surprise when he braces himself on his knees and holds his hand out to me. I take it eagerly, the touch gives me an immediate high, and I feel the familiar pull of The Joker. His shaggy, dyed a dirty green hair swings forward, it tickles my face, and I suppress a giggle. He's not wearing his Joker mask right now, but his lips are still a bloody red—I think they've stained that color—and his face is as pale as ever. His deep, black irises are shiny, his pupils only pinpoints. The trademark scar is more apparent than with the paint on, and it thrills me that I'm one of the only people that gets to see him like this. He drags me up with him roughly, shaking me out of my adoration and causing a slight burning sensation at my shoulder.

"On the bed." He commands, and I scramble up immediately, desperately hoping that he's changed his mind about punishment, and now we can get to the good stuff. I look at him for approval. "Cross your wrists and put them by the headboard." He says, looking for something on the other side of the room and not turning around. _Ooh, __**this**__ kind of fun stuff._ I do as he says and wait semi-patiently, squirming with anticipation.

Mistah J comes by the bed, cufflinks in hand, and quickly binds my wrists to the metal headboard. He then gracefully throws himself over me, straddling my lap. He bends down toward my ear, biting the tip of it none too gently before breathing roughly, "You need to be taught some manners, _missy_." His words bring shivers down my spine, and I decide to play the game, nodding, "I've been a bad girl, Daddy. You should teach me a _lesson_." J laughs, cackling hysterically in my ear. He draws back up and chuckles, "Oh, you are just _too_ funny, Harls." I frown, feeling insecure.

There's the flick of a switchblade as his laughter dies, and he repeats, all trace of humor gone, "_Too_ funny." My heart thumps swiftly in my chest and terror spreads through me, enveloping me like an old friend. "P-Puddin?" I ask quietly. "Tell me, Harls," He speaks loudly, ignoring my peep, "just wha-**t** was the reason you suggested good ol' _Doctor_ Crane, _h_mm?" The switchblade drags along my collarbone gently, cold, a warning. My mind works in overdrive, trying to find words to explain something said without thinking, something that upped my chances of getting through this—not dead. I couldn't think, I'm taking too long and the blade pauses where it is, and J applies pressure, causing a biting pain and a small amount of blood to trickle forth. "I just thought he was smart, ya know!?" I burst out, panicking. I see Puddin's fingers grip the blade white knuckled, trembling slightly, digging into my skin. _Oops._

"So you think I'm stupid." He replies in a toneless voice. I shake my head rapidly, "No, _no_, that not what I meant at all, Puddin. You're the smartest, most creative man I know!"

"_But_—?" He prompts. My eyes keep looking from his face to the knife, still trembling, ever so slightly still _in_ my skin. "B-But I, uh, thought you seemed kinda, I dunno, _stuck_...—I was just tryin' to help, Mistah J, honest!" A few long seconds ticked by in which I felt like my heart was going to explode. He removed the blade from my chest, and leaded back in close, staring at me with those manic eyes. "Nothing to do with you _fucking_ that little nitwit, eh _Harley_? All about his big, thick, _brain_?" He chuckles briefly at his own joke.

_This _wasn't_ just about his ego, he was actually jealous!_ Any mention of Crane at all would have made him angry; I'd just made it worse by adding insult to injury.

I couldn't _tell _him he didn't need to be jealous, because he would never admit to himself that that's what he was in the first place. My heart soars at the thought of how much he cares, despite himself. I wait, and he's staring at me with narrowed eyes. I can't help my excited gasp when he swiftly presses his lips against mine, growling, and nipping at them painfully. _Ohh, Mistah J_.

I struggle against my bonds, not caring that I'm bruising my wrists. Puddin deepens the kiss, viciously devouring my mouth so hard it's painful, gripping the back of my neck and pressing his body hard into mine. I can feel his cock stiffen in his slacks, and writhe against it, encouraging him. It's rare that Mistah J indulges in _that_ kind of intimacy, and all too often I find myself in whimpering, restless nights after he starts somethin' and refuses to finish it. He won't allow me to touch myself, says I need to learn _control_. The few times I've tried to anyway, he always finds out, and I'm left bleedin' and bruised where the sun don't shine. Pah…I don't know why it's such a crime to want my J so much.

He leans back, breaking the kiss, and I let out a startled, "Hey!" while he just chuckles and grabs the collar of my Powerpuff Girls tee shirt. He uses the knife to slice through the cotton fabric easily. I bite my tongue; that was one of my favorite shirts. All thoughts regarding anything but _him_ fly out the window when he shimmies down my shorts and undies. _I am the luckiest girl in the world!_

Mistah J's hand roughly cups my sex, digging his nails into my flesh, and I tremble. Then suddenly my world is spinning as he flips me over, my wrists tangled painfully against the cuffs. I hear his zipper come down and have to hold back moaning in anticipation. One wrong move and he could change his mind. _I need this_.

I feel the cold steel of the switchblade against my backside and shiver. "Harls?" He purrs, tapping the flat side of the blade against my right cheek twice. "Yes, Mistah J?" I reply dreamily. "If you scream you're going to get a lot worse than this." He says, and my confusion breaks through my bliss. "Wha—" He slams into me, and I let out a strangled groan. I always forget how _big_ Puddin is; even if it's only been weeks since the last time we made love, it feels like months, and each time my walls painfully stretch around him, the feeling of fullness making my eyes roll back into my head. He pumps in and out a few more times, and I'm distantly trying to work out the warning he gave me, why I would scream, and why he wouldn't want me to.

Then the pain hits me. Hot, and searing, I feel the switchblade he's been holding tear through the skin of my lower back. I let out a tempered yelp, tears pricking my eyes, and a scream threatening my throat. He doesn't even pause, or slow, still driving into me at a perfect, horrible tempo, cutting into my skin with a knife. I'm biting my tongue to keep form screaming and I taste blood. I try hard to focus on the pleasure, else I'll pass out. _He wouldn't like that_. Listening to his little grunts of ecstasy helps a lot, and I'm able to put the pain in the background a bit, and just feel the bliss my Puddin is offering me.

As he pumps faster, getting close, Mistah J loses a bit of control, letting the blade draw so much blood that I feel the world fading bit by bit around me. I hear the knife clatter to the cement floor and Mistah J leans so that his body is flush with mine, snarling and biting hard on my shoulder. I hear a rough, "Come for Daddy." And my world shatters around me.

The next thing I remember is waking up to the pain of being stitched up by my Puddin. I'm face down on the bed, and I lift my head up to look at him. He's showered, wearing a new shirt, his hair hanging in wet clumps around his face. I smile, _he's so handsome_. "Hold still!" he barks, and I quickly return to my original position.

My lower back is throbbing and I feel sick to my stomach. I wince as the needle is weaved in and out of my skin.

Eventually it's over, and Puddin tells me I can sit up, "_Care-_fully, Harls, unless you want your guts spilling out onto the floor." I do so, fighting the immense pain the action causes, tears streaming down my face silently. _Ouch. This was a doozy_.

I gasp when I see the bed. I'm sitting in a pile of my own blood; it's _everywhere_, on the sheets, the floor, the frame, and even on my dear Puddin's hands, all the way up to his elbows in streaks. _It's a good thing we don't stay in one place for long_. I think, almost drunkenly, and giggle to myself. Mistah J raises an eyebrow.

* * *

Things go downhill from there. I'm able to get around, but my wound bleeds through my clothing often, the stitches not holding. I get to look at it once, a very jagged, very bloody 'J' carved deep into my lower back. The sight makes me deliriously happy; it makes me feel even more _his_.

Puddin has to re-stitch it frequently, which I don't mind so much, as it forces him to focus on nothing but me for at least half an hour. But he's a busy man, and complains that I'm wasting his time, that it's my fault it's not healed yet, and in general, getting annoyed with it.

The day of our first heist after my new marking, I pass out, messing up the whole damn thing. We all have to flee because I couldn't do my part, somebody carrying me. When I come to, I end up actually vomiting _on_ Mistah J in the bumpy van, looking into his furious face before fading out again.

I blur in and out of consciousness for the next couple of days, not really aware of much except my Puddin's voice, when he's near.

'_It's infected.' A familiar voice says tightly._

'_So fix it then! I can't have her sitting here, _useless_, day in and day out. I've got things to do, people to make _laugh_!' My heart sinks at the disappointment in Mistah J's voice._

_ I've failed him._

'_Maybe you should have thought of that before.' Comes the cool reply, and even through my haze, I can feel tension crackling in the room._

_A sigh, 'It'll take time. I expect compensation.'_

'_Of course.' Mistah J replies, and I can hear him grabbing a jacket. 'Oh, and Crane? One hand out of line and you'll _lose _it.' A door slams._

_He's gone…_

**AN: I've got so many stories! Gah!**

**Will be a JokerxHarleyxCrane love triangle. Prolly more Joker moments, at least at first. I love him _so_ much.**

**Likey? No Likey? Tell me.**


End file.
